


But... you are a fridge

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Series: Don't tell MG about this [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Food Sex, Ice Play, Other, Porn, Temperature Play, no shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:10:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9420131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Mycroft Holmes has sex with refrigerators and British desserts.(not trying to make fun of Mycroft or anyone who fancies fridges, so chill)





	

Mycroft often wondered why solitary lifestyle was considered a failure. Sympathetic looks and reassuring _you will find someone_  were not offensive to him, simply bewildering. Obviously, he understood the appeal of a committed relationship, but he also observed how love, desire and possessiveness changed the people he knew, their perspective, goals, priorities. Tension, jealousy, conflicts, betrayals seemed inevitable. Eventually, even Sherlock let strangers into his life, although it was always brief and awkward.

Mycroft did not fight the assumption that he was asexual. His intimate choices were, as the name suggested, intimate. The Iceman, he was called, frozen solid, aloof, cold as ice. That secretly amused him. He was not as sexually repressed as it was thought and actually enjoyed playing with ice.

His adventure with refrigerators began when he reached puberty. More self-aware than before, confused by all the changes and deeply worried about his siblings, he turned to food for comfort. Impossibly high expectations, frequent disapproval, Sherlock's mental health and Eurus, all his problems were easier to cope with when he constantly munched on sweets. Biscuits, scones with indecent amounts of jam and clotted cream, carrot cake, rhubarb pie, rice pudding, Jaffa cakes, they all soothed his nerves. He did not mind the taunts about his weight and warnings about diabetes. He would deliberately tuck into another mince pie while staring at Sherlock, who was upset he had to try harder to make Mycroft lose his temper.

Around the same time, Mycroft discovered how much heat bothered him. He dreaded those two-three days of a real summer, disliked warm baths and felt uncomfortable in well-heated rooms. The thrill of ice cold showers was impossible to resist, in a strange way low temperature would ignite a fire inside him. It was only a matter of time before he connected both things he was so passionate about, food and coldness. First, it was ice cream, then, as his unsatisfied sexual needs became a nuisance, he started having sex with refrigerators.

Mummy would be mortified and Sherlock intrigued. Mycroft wisely kept it a secret, not out of shame, merely to avoid pointless discussions. At night, when he distinctly heard Sherlock's snoring and knew for sure everyone was asleep, he tiptoed to the kitchen. The fridge waited, humming quietly. She was full of treats that just waited to devoured by him. He dipped his fingers into chilled yoghurt, shiny jelly, fluffy ice cream and spread the sticky substances on his skin. The sweet taste, the cold, the stealthiness, Mycroft was aroused just by thinking about it. Illuminated by the internal light of the fridge, he unhurriedly opened a condom, rolled it on and stroked his swollen member. First moved into his own fist, then against the inside of the door. He thrust his hips slowly and coated his fingers with custard. He alternated between smearing it on his groin and licking it off his fingers in the most obscene manner. He wished he could empty the fridge entirely and hide in it. The idea always drove him close to the edge. He placed his hand on the side of his prick, trapping it between his palm and the door. The friction was as delicious as the lingering taste of desserts and the combination was intoxicating. Orgasms, Mycroft noticed, were ten times more intense when he was half-way into the fridge, holding onto the door for dear life. Afterwards, he would take a pot of yoghurt to bed and eat with his fingers. 

The privacy of his own flat was worth the tremendous stress of his job. No one would disturb his experiments and he finally had the freedom to unabashedly explore his fantasies. His own refrigerator excited him beyond measure. She was only his, not touched or looked at by anyone else. He loved the clean, smooth surfaces, the contrast between the warm light and the chill emanating from the inside. He decorated her front with takeaway leaflets and magnets. She was beautiful. After each sensual session, he cleaned her thoroughly, wiped every inch of her lovingly, then filled her up with cakes, chocolate mousse, heavy cream and sweetest fruits. She could always take more than he expected, so much space he could fill the way he wanted.

Mycroft was forever indebted to the person who thought of ice cubes in the form of long sticks. He felt ready to dig deeper, reach further and test his limits. Sex toys did not satisfy his urges, even cooling lubricant was a disappointment. Ice in the form of a relatively small stick was a revolutionary discovery. So addictive that the mould was never empty. 

After a particularly long day of picking up after Sherlock, he entered the kitchen wearing only a silk dressing gown. The fridge welcomed him, releasing those quiet hums he was so fond of. He started with a single ice stick. Held it in his hand until it melted a bit, the moisture would smooth the way. He untied the gown and moved his hand back, between his arse cheeks, traced the tight opening with the tip of the stick. His cheeks heated up as he slowly yet with great determination pushed the stick in until it disappeared. He leant against the fridge door, groaning, overcome by the pure, physical sensation. A couple of deep breaths and he could continue. The opened the fridge, the sight of cold sweets was simultaneously calming and tempting. A creamy, lemon cheesecake, a gooseberry fool and a butterscotch Angel Delight. He licked his lips, already salivating. He stuffed his mouth with a large piece of the cheesecake and while chewing, stuck his fingers into the smooth Angel Delight. He rested one foot on the lowest shelf, his front almost completely inside the fridge. She was so accepting and accommodating, her arctic breath on Mycroft's hot skin felt divine. Using his butterscotch-flavoured lubricant, he wrapped his fingers around the base of his length and moved upwards. He was so hard and desperate for release, yet wanted to draw it out.

Condoms were unnecessary, another advantage of living alone. Mycroft enthusiastically dragged the head of his prick across the pristine glass shelf, leaving it filthy and wet with his precome. Another mouthful of the cheesecake, followed by the fool and the rest of the delightful angel treat. Mycroft was so full. The ice stick as melting, the water was trickling down his legs, he thrusts harder against the shelf, then slowed down. The fridge did not rush him, they had all the time in the world, or until Sherlock got into trouble, again. When only tiny crumbs were left of the cheesecake and most of the fool was smeared on Mycroft's chest and thighs, the ice stick was just a pleasant memory. The fridge was dirty, so dirty, Mycroft's fingers spread all three desserts everywhere he could reach without changing his position. The debauched picture he painted was too much, he climaxed with a strangled moan, filling the fridge with his ejaculate and she took every drop of it. He remained half-hidden inside for a while, excited for the cleaning. That could wait, though. He picked up a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the counter. Seated on the floor, back against the fridge, he enjoyed a well-deserved after-shag fag.

He loved his fridge.

**Author's Note:**

> I regret nothing and will not apologise for art.
> 
> Part two coming right up: Coatlock. Yes, I'm scared.


End file.
